


Visions of You

by FeartheTalon



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels, Star Wars: Thrawn Series - Timothy Zahn (2017)
Genre: Alcoholism, Angst, Chimaera Crew, Chiss, Drabbles, F/M, Fluff, Force Powers, Mental Illness, PTSD, Recovery, Romance, Slavery, Trans Character, Trauma Survivor, arranged marriage (unhappy), sexual assault trauma recovery, transmasc Thrawn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-05 21:03:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 5,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16818406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeartheTalon/pseuds/FeartheTalon
Summary: Thirty one day of Chissmas- Snippets, Drabbles, and flash fiction based on a larger Thraro story in the works with mistressminako.Thanks go out to the Thryce discord for inspiring me with their advent calendar. It urged me to give a little love to my girl, Karyn.SPOILERS for Alliances.





	1. Special

**Author's Note:**

> To put it succinctly: In this author universe Thrawn is a ozyly-esehembo who was matched with Formbi, pulled a Napoleon and got exiled from the Chiss, but is still used by them. There is no rape in the story, but there maybe mentions of it, and I will mark the chapters accordingly in the notes if you would like to skip.
> 
> unedited and Betaed

"I'll take the special," Thrawn says, handing the menu back to the waitress. 

Karyn grins over her mug of caf. "I never thought you'd go for that," she says. "Then again, I never thought you'd be eating at some place like this."

She knows so little about him, but so much. She knows how he takes his tea, and the exact way to place her fingers against his skin to drive him mad. She has learned more about his people, and the guilt he carries with him in the weeks of slow travel back to civilization after Lord Vader’s departure.

Followed by the past week on Coruscant. She has scheduled leave, her first in what seems like ages, knowing he will be planetside. Other than a meeting with the Emperor, an art exhibit and a rather pricey dinner on their first night, they have barricaded themselves in their hotel room.

Until this morning. Thrawn has always been quiet, he is never one to ramble unless the subject is something of interest, but today seems different, an almost uneasy silence sits between them, like those first few days after Batonn when his breath still reeked of whiskey. Tension trembles in the corners of his eyes. Yes, something is wrong with Her Admiral. 

"Governor Pryce invited me to dine here once, before she was Governor of course," he replies.

A lead weight drops into Karyn's gut. There are times he tends to obliviousness, but Karyn senses this is a message. _Governor Pryce?_ Knowing how much she hates the woman, why would he bring her here? Why would he mention it?

Her mouth flickers as she tries to change the subject. "Well, our week is almost over. The ship should be done with repairs shortly. It'll be good to get back to the fleet."

"You will not be going back," Thrawn replies. "You have been assigned Command of the 403rd, effective immediately. Congratulations, Commodore."

Black liquid sloshes over the rim of her mug and scalds her hands. Faro curses. The 403rd. The 403rd? She had supposedly been promised the 231st, but that had been postponed again and again. With her relationship with Thrawn, she hasn’t minded as much as she should have. The 403rd is an amalgamation of tiny ships: barely any light cruisers, let alone a star destroyer. The types of ships that patrol core sectors and never see any action. The types of cushy task forces that are given to people who are too inept to serve elsewhere.

"All your belongings were transferred this week," he continues in that calm voice, as if he has not upended her entire life over a plate of eggs.

He is not even letting her say goodbye. The Chimaera has been her home for over twelve years. The bridge crew had been hers before he had even stepped foot on the ship. _Hammerly, Lomar, Pyrondi_. They are the closest thing she has to family. She had assumed one day she would be promoted, given a command of her very own, one worthy of her skills or perhaps, after all they had been through together, sent to help his people, like Vanto had been. 

She had thought she had been deemed worthy enough. That she was... _different_. Instead, she is being discarded. 

Lothal. The diner. The bridge during Atollon. It all makes sense now. He is going to Lothal to be with a woman who killed 30,000 civilians with a straight face. 

And Faro is a complication.

She stands, her face collapsing into her officer's mask. "Thank you for informing me, sir." She tosses some credit chips on to the table. "I should attend to my duties then. I'll have a lot to get done before I depart."

"Karyn."

The sound of her first name feels strange again. For the longest time, she has not thought of herself in such a way. ‘Karyn’ had been something only he had called her, and only in the most intimate of circumstances. She does not know who that person is anymore.

Apparently someone who was naive enough to fall for him like a girl half her age. Someone desperate and lonely who had not been as intelligent and capable as she had thought. Someone who had been used as a testing ground for another woman. 

Bitterness floods her mouth, and it's not the caf.

"I hope your campaign at Lothal goes well," Commodore Faro manages to choke out. "Farewell, Admiral."

She does not wait for his reply, but lets the diner doors part, leading her out into a new life. A life far away from him.


	2. Short

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for Thrawn's POV/motive.

A little over a year. A single breath. The most poignant connection of his life extinguished.

From Karyn settling down in a chair for a vigil beside his bed, the ghosts of Batonn rattling his mind, to last night, their bodies clashing against each other so desperately he thought they would spark and catch fire.

She had dimmed today, fidgeting on the duriplast diner seats. He had expected a blaze of anger. A slap. Instead, she had wilted. He had almost stopped her. Begged even. And he had never been one to do that.

Thrawn crosses the room and stumbles. His foot catches on a frippery of blue and black lace that he had eased down her legs only hours before, following its path with his mouth.

The Bendu. A small child, one of his own people, not even as high as his waist. Their words meshing together into a clear message.

The _ozyly-esehembo_ had called Karyn his match. A child's mistake. She hadn't been mistaken when her eyes dimmed, her body stiffening. He knew that look himself. Had felt the flashes of vision through a trance constantly when younger. The third sight. Then her words telling him that he would be the destruction of the one he loved.

He had watched her that entire night. Her embrace had been warm as always, the scent of her, smoke and amberwood, her steady heartbeat: his balm. If he did not act quickly, how soon would it take for it to turn cold?

_She will be safe now._

He kneels in front of the fridge, his fingers close around stubby bottles of clear and amber liquid pulling them out and slamming them on the counter beside him. These will do for now. He twists the top of the first, swallows in one gulp. It burns his throat and lingers like napalm.

A little over a year, an eternity. The return of a long lost friend. 


	3. Singing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's some non-depressing musings from when they were first feeling each other out. Enjoy.

Karyn is singing in the shower again. If it can be called singing. He is not sure humans would, and is certain Chiss with their softer, lower pitched voices, would definitely object. 

After a full minute of concentrating he can identify the song: some ballad from a Mon Calamari holofilm they watched the night before. He is certain, even though it is difficult to hear her through the sound of the water and his lack of familiarity with the language, that she is getting half the words wrong. Thrawn remembers her silly grin while watching, almost girlish, momentarily carefree. While the film’s taste level was indeed questionable, Thrawn had enjoyed an entirely unfamiliar sensation: the warm weight of her body settling against his as the credits rolled. 

It is a new thing for both of them. Stopping and resting. After a certain hour, he forces her to set aside her datapad and commlink, they have a home now on a high shelf far out of her reach, and in return he is not allowed to touch any of the glass bottles filled with forvish ale on the counters of his kitchenette. Instead they drink "Faro's special tea" which resembles tar more than anything else. 

He loves every sip of it.

Sometimes they curl on the couch together and watch a holodocumentary or talk about the day or play a game. She teaches him dejarik while she speaks of the clone wars. He tells her about his brother, his people, his vision. He recounts some of his early adventures with Vanto. He loves the sound of her laughter, sharp and unfettered, and the way it transforms her face, so different from her usual frown. 

Sleep is the most miraculous of their activities. He has managed to convince her to join him in his bed instead of sitting next to him in a chair all night as his own personal sentinel, guarding Thrawn from his poor decisions. Although being in the military his entire life has accustomed him to close quarters, after Formbi, he was unsure of ever being able to share a bed. Resting beside Karyn is different. There is comfort in the steadiness of her heartbeat, her breath on the back of his neck. She sleeps more soundly, wakes to find herself curled around him, and hates him a little for the embarrassment it causes. He, on the other hand, enjoys both the experience and her discomfort immensely. 

Although he wishes for something more…. He does not know exactly what.

Her singing reaches a catastrophic key, shrill enough to shatter glass. Thrawn shakes his head and smiles.


	4. Soft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A character from Legends totally re-imagined for the canon complaint universe. This is what happens when Faro gets Legend!Thrawn's job.

She wakes to a mouthful of fur. 

Faro blinks in dim emergency lights of the room and rips the cloying fluff from her face. A head turns, and four dark eyes study her. 

Faro scoffs. She wants to rinse her mouth out to get rid of the moss taste. Ysalamir is not a preferred flavor of hers. She wonders which one got out this time. Is it Saffron, or Cumin or Turmeric? Nope, with that turn of snout and mischievous expression, it can only be Curry.

Why are you not on your perch? She thinks.

Faro tilts her head to her side and spots the twin lightsabers resting on the nightstand. Beside her, Mara is curled into a ball, her blue skin, navy in the dim light. Faro sits up and brushes the hair back from the little girl's face. Must have been bad dreams again.

In a way, she can thank Thrawn for Mara; it’s one of the few things at this moment she can thank him for. Even though Mara was given to her by Palpatine upon Faro's promotion to Grand Admiral, another tool to further his ambitions in the Unknown Regions, she knows Thrawn is the primary reason Mara was with the Emperor in the first place.

She still has a hard time believing it. Still has a hard time believing bad things of the dead. 

She has an even harder time with the idea of child soldiers. That Mara, who cannot be older than eight has already killed people. Has been tortured. Faro has tried her hardest to balance Mara's life. She still helps with navigation, she would protest otherwise. It has taken a year and a half, but Faro thinks she is making progress turning this ultimate warrior into something more like an innocent. 

"Curry, I know you spend all day with her, but you really need to learn to sleep with your master," Faro murmurs. It takes some effort, a juggling of claws, but she manages to pry Curry from her chest. There is no perch in Faro's sleeping quarters. Instead, she places Curry on Mara's pillow and he nestles in around the little girl's head.

The resettling of weight shifts Mara, and she opens blood red eyes. 

"I'm sorry, Admiral."

"It's okay Mara," Faro replies. "He just likes me because I'm warmer." 

Mara sits up and Curry chirps in protest. "I meant for sneaking into your bed again, sir."

Faro smiles. "It's always okay, Mara. Although I wish you'd wake me first."

Mara’s face creases into Chiss seriousness. "You don't get enough sleep."

She sounds so much like Thrawn, sometimes. In those days, there had been countless arguments over her sleeping habits. It’s how he managed to coerce her into his bed.

"Nightmares again?" 

The little girl nods. 

Faro wants to reach out to Mara, pull her close, as she used to do when Thrawn shook from his nightmares and flashbacks, when the border between his present, past and future blurred. But Mara hates any outright softness, any perceived affection, so Faro must make do with words.

"Did you see anything?"

Mara shakes her head. "It wasn't third sight. It was... the other stuff."

Torture. Faro realizes. Palpatine. The things he had to do to her to shape her into this injured child. 

"Well, as long as Curry and I are around, you're safe."

"That makes no sense, Admiral," Mara says. An argument they have had over and over in the two years Mara has been under her care. " I'm supposed to be protecting you."

She wonders if Thrawn was like this as a child. Protective. Temper prone. Melancholy. Alone. She certainly suspects he was more contrary, although sometimes... 

"We'll take turns, how about that?"

"It's still wrong."

Faro chuckles. "All right then. You'll take care of me, and I'll make sure you have the resources you need to do that. Does that sound all right to you?"

"Better."

"That's that then,” and because she can’t phrase it any other way, “Now back to sleep Mara, that's an order."

“Yes, sir.”

She watches Mara settle down in the pillows. Even though it is years later, she's much smaller than the other girls were on the Chimaera on that night long ago. The girls they saved from the Grysk. Mara had been one of them once. The unseen one. The one they saved only to... the one they didn't save. 

Faro pretends to settle down as well, her eyes lingering as Mara’s limbs relax, until the only movement is the rise and fall of her chest, and the fluttering of her eyelashes against her cheeks, until she looks like a little girl, who in another life, might have allowed herself to be loved.


	5. Animal

She has always wondered why he flinches when she runs her fingers across his back. Such an innocuous touch, particularly through clothing. He has learned to tolerate when she clings to him, or accidentally brushes the skin of his waist, but a touch to his upper back makes him rear as if struck.

Someone has branded him. As if he were an animal rather than a sentient being. Like the Empire marked its slaves.

Below his nape, a tattoo, the size of a restraining bolt. A match mark, he tells her, crafted with a unique ink that makes it glow gold against the azure expanse of his skin. The lines are elegant and swirl like an ancient seal. 

It is the last thing from beautiful.

_Someone once thought they could own Thrawn_. She wonders if they are dead. She hopes they are.

Faro presses her cheek against his shoulder blade; his heart pounds inside his chest like a caged beast. "We can arrange to have it removed."

"No," he replies, straightening. "It is one of my reminders: to endure despite it all."

He turns to her, cups her cheek, traces her scowl with his thumb.

"You are the other," he says and leans down to replace the finger with his mouth.


	6. Wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thrawn's side of the story. Note the tags. Thrawn is trans. Also an alcoholic. There's a vague reference to sexual assault. 
> 
> The term red flame comes from SWTOR. Although in the intervening 3600 years, it has come to mean something much more sinister.

The wine floods his mouth like blood, and Thrawn chokes on a memory. 

It was a sweet wine that night too, at the wedding banquet. An ostentatious affair, not as much as if he had been the primary wife of an Aristocra rather than a _ros'chah_ , a Red Flame. He remembers the weight of the ornaments in his hair, gilded and set with honey dark topazes. A burgundy dress, of shimmersilk, the breasts, as meager as they were at the time, pushed almost to his neck by an elaborate corset, also gold. And of course, the final touches, the gold cloak, fastened with brooches at the shoulder, the amber studded collar, and the elaborately embroidered pouch at his waist, containing a lock of Formbi's hair, later burned.

Earlier, after the contact had been signed by Formbi and Thrass, they had marked him. 

Thrawn had finished an entire bottle before the ceremony even began. Another entire bottle after. At the end of the banquet, Thrawn had made it a point to vomit all over Formbi's taunskin leather shoes. It hadn't delayed the inevitable, it had only made him angry. 

Years after, Karyn had tried to heal him with soft words and touches, but did not understand you could not heal that which was beyond fixing. Karyn, who according to his information network, had disappeared along with the rest of the 7th fleet that had survived Lothal. Palpatine's threat made true. 

_I doomed you when I lost to Bridger_ , Thrawn thinks as he cradles the last bottle of alcohol they had been able to salvage from his derelict ship. 

He can’t remember Karyn ever drinking in front of him, but he still pours a libation and drains it on the floor, offering it to her memory. The rest he swallows to numb the sting of his failure.


	7. Boss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thrawn's thoughts from very early on. Yes I totally stole the quote from Sun Tzu. As before, mind the tags.

Sometimes when Thrawn watches Faro on the bridge, her carriage proud and erect, her voice sharp, and precise as she orders the crew, he is reminded of the description of a commander from Suun'tuzu'nuruodo's _Artistry of War_.

_'A commander must possess the virtues of wisdom, sincerity, benevolence, courage and strictness.'_

His first officer is a balance of all of these characteristics, an in addition, ambition, not just for power, but for her own personal growth. Command comes naturally to her, her application of the correct methods and discipline to all those under her is nothing short of seamless even Ar’alani would merit no complaint. But Faro is not a Chiss; she is unapologetically human, brusque, insubordinate and frequently grumpy.

Recently, he has noticed a new development, her desire his approval. Her admiral approves, he approves very much indeed. So much it makes Thrawn feel occasionally awkward, certainly not outwardly so, but he cannot help the spark of pleasure that erupts when she takes her place in front of the viewport, barraging him with questions before he can ask his own. She does not wait for his tutelage but demands it. Vanto had been forced into Thrawn’s proximity by his own machinations; she sought him out. Faro does not limit her information gathering to purely military matters, she has tried to absorb his appreciation of art, an ultimately futile attempt, but he is amused by her excessive persistence. Her inquisitiveness spurs her to ask him more about himself, the adventures he has had, his hopes, his dreams. She wants to know him.

In return, he seems to exert almost a calming influence on her person. When he stands by her, her anxiety, her racing heartbeat, the pinched skin in the corners of her eyes fades. Funny how she inspires such opposing feelings in him. He had felt similar emotions before, for the first time in the presence of Maris Ferasi, pride, a desire to puff himself up like some ridiculously plumed bird. That had been a fleeting emotion, a game, and he had gotten what he had wanted from her in the end, a flirtation, a boost to his ego, and information. 

There was nothing to gain here. He did not have to coerce Faro to be a better officer. Extended proximity had bred familiarity, something almost akin to affection. There was never a possibility with Ferasi, with their circumstances and her jealous partner, it had been safe. These feelings for Faro, they are dangerous, and grow only stronger with time. Sometimes she chews her lip while thinking, or their gloved hands brush, and he feels heat bloom in chest, or even more frequently, the burning sensation of breathlessness. He wants to ask her to do it again, to even perhaps, hold his hand, but he is not used to being close to people. Touch does not always hold comfort for him, and sex, something spoken of as natural in the course of human romantic relationships, is something he associates with Formbi. He attempted to ask Vanto for advice once, witnessed the dawning horror on Vanto’s face, let the subject drop, and never approached it again. 

At first, he sought out pornography, but it made him feel as if he were back in a reception room wearing a skin-tight dress, or even worse as if he were in bed, a heavy body pressing him down into the mattress. Art has been futile as well, he cannot find himself there either physically or emotionally, the couples entwined together, striving for ecstasy, their eyes squeezed shut, their mouths open in rapture. Such an emotion is foreign to him, there is only a hunger for something unknown. Sometimes he aches for a penis of his own, but then feels shame. He does not want to hurt Faro, and his personal experience has confirmed that certain things in life are accompanied by pain, even though the paintings and holos he has studied suggest otherwise. 

It's not as if she is attracted to him, someone made wrong. He remembers Ferasi after her discovery when she had pressed her chest against his to save his life. She had retreated from him, but primarily he fixates on her look of pity as she told him he was brave and that his secret was safe with her. It would wound him if Faro looked at him like that. 

He distracts himself with thoughts of duty, duty to the galaxy and to his people in order to push these inconvenient feelings away. But he is only a man, homesick and lonely. And there is a person who, when she thinks he isn't paying attention, squints and studies him to make sure he's all right, who inquires into his well being. A person who exemplifies the qualities of an outstanding warrior and leader. Who in another life, would have made an admirable match, but she is not Chiss and he is... made wrong. 

So he settles for standing next to her on the bridge, his eyes softening as he offers her a small smile. The stiffness in her shoulders eases and she looks up at him to make her first report.


	8. Confident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place a few days before chapter 1

_There is something that changes about a person, when they're wearing a certain type of clothing,_ Faro thinks as she slides on her heels. She's still amazed that ten years later, the gown still fits, and hopes, even though it is a decade out of fashion, it will suit. She had originally bought it to go on a blind date with a friend of Xoxtin’s, a mid-tier politician working his way up the ladder. In her effort to look presentable in Coruscanti society, and to end Xoxtin’s harping, Faro had spent a small fortune on the dress. Too much money for a date than had been less than stellar, particularly considering she had lived solely in uniform everyday thereafter.

_Tonight though, I might just get a return on my investment._

Faro turns this way and that in the fresher mirror, admiring the way the navy-blue cloth skims her body. The dress amuses her. It covers such benign places, her shoulders, her arms, but leaves large swaths of her skin open to view. The front and back are slit to the waist, the scar bisecting her rib cage on proud display. If she remembers correctly, Xoxtin’s friend’s expression had soured upon spotting her Clone Wars souvenirs, but she knows Thrawn is enamored of her scars, as if they are medals rather than mars.

She adjusts her necklace, a pendant of small crystals on a long chain, so it hangs symmetrically between her breasts, claps the bronze cuffs, borrowed from Hammerly, over her wrists, admiring their contrast with her manicured nails. Faro shakes her head, recounting how Pyrondi and Hammerly had pulled her into their bunk and taught her the witchcraft of makeup and other feminine mysteries, giggling into the early hours as if they were teenagers instead of women in their thirties and forties. 

With one last fluff to her eternally flat hair, she turns and exits the fresher. Thrawn is sitting on the bed, his coat jacket laying beside him. He looks up from tying his shoes, and freezes. She catches the glittering of his eyes, before she turns, showing off the curve of her exposed back.

Within seconds his palm is sliding across her spine. He ducks and presses his lips between her shoulder blades.

"I told you it was a nice dress," she says, grinning. 

"Indeed," he replies. His knuckles trace a path up and down her back. "I can admit I approve of this dress much more than the Chiss variety." 

"If you keep that up, we won't make it to your gala." 

"I am not opposed to having my own, private art show, right here." She can hear the smile in his voice as he presses himself fully against her, feel his hand sneaking beneath the slit of her dress.

"Why not both?" Faro replies, rolling her eyes. "There will be plenty of time when we get back."

Thrawn walks his lips up the column of her neck. He brings his arm across her, his fingers slip into the front of her dress; she can feel the tape detach as he cups her breast. "So unambitious. Would you not prefer both before and after?"


	9. Ornament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faro's reflections post-Jakuu and shortly after arriving on the Hand of Thrawn.

_It's just a frippery now_ , Faro thinks looking down at her hand. Insignificant, just like the white uniform she wears, and continues to wear for some reason, justifying that with limited resources, clothing shouldn't go to waste and that she should use what they have. 

The Chiss, at least superficially, seem to understand and respect the white. 

Even her larger ships are gone, the star destroyers stripped of components, their frames buried in the heart of the nearby gas giant. They were considered too conspicuous. And useless, considering the Hand lacked the resources to fuel or repair them.

She does not know what she is going to do. The galaxy is changed. _This isn't the first time and you managed to make it through_. But this is different. Not a smooth transition following the ruling of the senate. There is nothing orderly in the galaxy now, save for this little pocket of the Unknown Regions, only chaos remains.

_This person_ , she thinks as she fastens her Grand Admiral's insignia to her chest, _is dead_. Just like the Empire. 


	10. Guard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More thoughts from Faro on the Hand of Thrawn

Since Faro has stepped on to the Hand, Mara has been her constant shadow. She is particularly vigilant in the presence of Thrawn and has just enough control not to hiss at him. Despite everything, despite that her world has turned upside down: Empire dead, Thrawn alive, Bridger an ally, the fierceness of her little warrior makes her smile. 

In a way, Mara is right, even though Faro has wrested control of the Hand with her coup, neither of them are safe here. The Chiss faction lies in wait to overturn her. The _ozyly-esehembo_ , those who have already lost their powers, as well as those on the brink of losing them, look at Mara, with her lightsabers, and additional skills with jealousy, with hate, not knowing at what cost those things came. The humans, the people who once served under her on the Chimaera, the survivors at least, have banded together with her crew and with her for the moment, but they have their own prejudices.

Out of all of the people living on the Hand, Thrawn is the most dangerous. He has already manipulated her once, he knows her weak points, her strengths. If Faro had only herself to look after, there would be less of an issue, but she is a leader now. She has a crew and a little girl that is hers to protect.

She will not fail them.


	11. Introduction

_On the Chimaera_

Thrawn drops a locket into her hands. Faro cradles it in her palms. Her thumb presses the clasp and eases it open. Inside are two holoportraits. On the left is the portrait of a young Chiss man with a proud bearing. He looks so much like Thrawn: The same long nose, thin lips, gaunt cheekbones, their skin the exact same cobalt blue, The eyes are different though, not only in color, but expression. They are almost sad, perhaps disappointed. On the opposite side, there is a holo of an infant, swathed in yellow, their eyes closed, their face turned towards their curled fist. Again the same blue, with a shock of black hair. 

Faro turns her face from the images in front of her and looks into Thrawn's eyes. They are luminous. wavering, but as she holds his gaze, they steady.

"These are my younger brother, Thrass and.... my daughter," he says after a long while.

Her free hand reaches for his, clutches his hand in her own. 

"Tell me about them," she says. 

Thrawn sits next to her and tells her the story of his brother, his love for him, but also their inability to understand each other. Faro’s face contorts in rage when he mentions the circumstances of his marriage. 

"You gave up everything for him," she growls "and he still treated you like that."

"I still resent him for it," Thrawn says. "but he was doing what he thought was best. What our culture proscribed for him to do. He sacrificed his life to prevent a Civil War amongst my people. Apparently, he only managed to postpone it." His face is full of shadow. 

Faro shakes her head and fuses her mouth shut, not wishing to worsen Thrawn’s mood with her thoughts.

"I made so much trouble for him. I suppose at times, he thought felt like the older sibling."

"And your daughter? Where is she now?"

"I don't know," he says. His shoulders sag. "She was taken from me when she was a few months old, as all _ozyly-esehembo_ are. When she was quite young, the ship she was piloting disappeared. It was later found, completely destroyed. The people on board gone. No one was able to determine what happened."

Faro leans against him, resting her head on his shoulder. His voice is calm as ever, but she can tell from the tension in his body, he hurts. These are old aches. Unhealable. All she can do is be here and hope he gains comfort from her presence. 

"I hated being pregnant. I hated what it did to my body, despised it. It was a violation, and I felt like an abomination, but I did not hate her. After a while, I could feel her presence, feel her grow and change inside me, then near the end, the touch of her mind on mine. I loved her on sight."

"What is her name?"

"Chaf'ehri'nuruodo," Thrawn replies. He takes the locket from Faro’s hand presses it closed.

* * *

_Hand of Thrawn, 6ABY_

When Faro wakes, and manages after several agonizing minutes to push herself into some semblance of sitting, there is a new presence on the periphery of her room. Thankfully, it's not Thrawn for once. The two guards by her door seem unperturbed. Filling her doorway, is a broad shouldered Chiss woman, her muscles rippling in the hospital light. Sprawling ink vines cover her shoulders and circle her neck, geometric patterns litter her hands. Only her face is blue. She is grinning wider than Faro has ever seen a Chiss smile. 

"You must be Admiral Faro," the woman says. "I've been wanting to meet you for some time. Mind if I come in?" her accent is odd, Cheunh by way of Corellia.

"I am. And yes, you can come in. Mind if I ask what's the issue?" 

"My name is Fehrin." the woman replies taking a seat by Faro’s bed. 

Faro remembers and smiles. 


End file.
